P. Parrish - Thicker Than Water

“They knew each other since college,” Louis said. “I find it hard to believe she didn’t know her husband was dumping her.”

“Spencer was an attorney. He knew how to keep a secret.”

“Like another woman?”

Brenner stopped and looked at Louis. “Spencer?” He smiled slightly. “No, there was no other woman in Spencer’s life.”

“You were good friends?”

“Not particularly. We crossed paths socially, but nothing more really.” Brenner started toward the river.

“So how can you be so sure?”

Brenner stopped again. With his big head and sunglasses, he looked like a fly. “Spencer wasn’t the type, believe me.”

They were standing near a swimming pool, half-filled with still, green water. Brenner’s eyes drifted to the cabana. The broken windows of the cabana stared back forlornly.

“Kids,” Louis said.

“What?” Brenner said, looking at him.

“Kids,” Louis repeated, nodding toward the broken windows.

“Yeah,” Brenner muttered.

The faint sound of a car horn carried out to them from up by the house. Louis and Brenner both looked back. A moment later, a blond woman in a green suit appeared at the open French door. She was holding a hand over her eyes, looking their way.

“I have to go,” Brenner said.

He didn’t wait for Louis to answer. He hurried back up the path to where the appraiser waited. They disappeared into the house.

Louis stood there, squinting in the bright sun. Well, at least he knew for sure about the divorce. Now he just had to find out if Candace Duvall did.

At the Sanibel-Captiva toll booth, Louis stopped to show his resident badge and then drove on over the causeway. He turned off Periwinkle Way, looking for the Duvall home. Bayview Lane turned out to be a secluded street, buffered on one side by mangroves and lined with waterfront homes on the other.

He slowed the Mustang in front of an open gate. He had considered calling ahead, but he had finally decided to just show up. He wanted to meet Candace Duvall cold, with no time for her to prepare neat little answers.

He turned into the drive, stopping the Mustang and letting out a low whistle. Before him loomed a huge three-story house. It gleamed white in the sun, aggressively modern, with big empty windows. All the native sea grapes had been cleared, leaving a patch of Astro Turf-like lawn and two new royal palms, propped up with tripods of two-by-fours.

Louis stared at the place in disbelief. He had been expecting something else, maybe a nice old beach place with the same pleasantly seedy elegance of Duvall’s office. This place was a monstrosity, madly out of proportion with the homes around it. Zero-lot-line McMansions crowding out picturesque bungalows. And they called it progress.

So much for sand in the shoes, Louis thought as he pulled in the drive.

He parked next to a canary yellow Mercedes convertible. The vanity tag read CANDY 1. A second car was parked nearby, a modest older-model blue Toyota.

At the massive bronze doors, Louis found an intercom and rang. He waited, his eyes wandering up to the small camera above. A woman’s accented voice came back.

“Deliveries around the side, please.”

“I’m here to see Mrs. Duvall,” Louis said. He looked directly up into the camera lens. “My name is Louis Kincaid.”

There was a pause. “Mrs. Duvall is expecting you?”

“No. But I’m here on behalf of Mr. Duvall’s lawyer, Brian Brenner.” Another lie. It was becoming frighteningly easy.

It was at least a minute before the door opened. A small bronze-skinned woman in a white uniform motioned him in.

“Wait here, please.”

The woman disappeared, her Aerosoles squeaking on the marble like sneakers on a gym floor. It gave Louis a chance to look around.

He was standing in a soaring circular foyer, right in the center of an elaborate mosaic of stars made of onyx, lapis and some kind of gold stone. A twin staircase curved up around him, a sinuous U of glass and chrome. Under it, the foyer opened onto what he guessed was the living room, a cathedral of blinding white light dotted with sleek pale blue furniture. Through the huge windows beyond, he could see a turquoise rectangle-the pool. And beyond that, a shimmer of blue that was San Carlos Bay.

He turned at the sound of squeaking soles.

“Mrs. Duvall says to wait for her in the living area.”

Ah. Living area.

Louis followed the maid into the white light.

The maid left him alone again. He looked around, debating whether to actually sit in one of the unforgiving silk chairs. He decided to remain standing. His eyes wandered over the room’s severely elegant furniture and down to the white carpet with its little gold star design. This wasn’t a place people lived in; it was some designer’s wet dream. Everything was perfect. The perfect pleats of the white sheers. The perfect fingerprint-free glass tables. The perfect slant of the white orchids in their crystal vase.

He was trying to reconcile all this with Duvall’s cozy old office when a waft of cold air caused him to turn. Candace Duvall was standing at the foyer.

He knew Candace Duvall was in her mid-forties but she was trying real hard not to look like it. She had a tumble of heavily frosted blond curls around a small, deeply tanned face with big eyes and a pug nose. Her body was just thin enough to be called lush instead of plump, and ill-concealed in a loosely belted robe. The robe was white silk dotted with little gold stars. He wondered if she always coordinated her clothes with her carpet.

“Luisa didn’t tell me your name,” she said.

“Louis Kincaid.”

She was leaning against a pillar, a languid pose. More Mae West than mourning wife.

“You work with Brian?”

Brian? Well, Brenner had said they were social acquaintances.

“I’ve never seen you before,” she said.

“I’m new,” he said.

She came slowly into the room. From her pocket, she extracted a cigarette and a blue Bic. She lit the cigarette and drew quickly on it.

“You don’t look like a lawyer,” she said, her eyes locked on his. They were brown and puppy-like. Her face had the shiny taut look of a recent peel. Coupled with the eyes, it made her look like one of those little Pekinese dogs.

“What are lawyers supposed to look like?” he asked.

“You know, Brooks Brothers. Or Savile Row, in Spencer’s case.”

Savile Row? That didn’t square with sand in the shoes either.

Suddenly, Candace moved toward him, stopping just inches away. Louis resisted the urge to move back. Her smell-a potent brew of flowers, cigarettes and something musty he couldn’t quite place-filled his nostrils.

She took a step back. “You don’t smell like a lawyer either,” she said.

“Lawyers have a smell?”

“Everyone has a smell, their own unique human perfume,” she said. “My first boyfriend, he smelled like sawdust and Necco wafers. Not unpleasant, really.”

She went to a sofa and sat down, crossing her well-muscled, tanned legs. “Spence, he smelled like shoe polish.” She drew heavily on the cigarette as she stared up at him.

He suddenly could remember the smell of the shoe polish he used to shine his shoes with when he was a cop. Okay, he’d play along.

“Roll-on or paste?” he asked.

“What?”

“Shoe polish. Roll-on or paste? The roll-on stuff smells like burnt tires. The paste smells more like turpentine.”

She stared at him for a moment, then laughed. She leaned forward to tap her cigarette in a crystal ashtray. The robe opened to a clear view of her tanned left breast and a large brown nipple. Louis didn’t look away. She leaned back, still smiling slightly.

“You’re not a lawyer, are you?” she said.